SONGS 

AND 

MORE 

SONGS 

OF 

THE 

GLENS 

OF 

ANTRIM 

MOIRA: 

O'NEILL 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


Songs  of 
The  Glens  of  Antrim 

and 

More  Songs  of 
The  Glens  of  Antrim 


•\>— 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON  •    CHICAGO 
DALLAS   •   ATLANTA   •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO..  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 

TORONTO 


Songs  of  the  Glens  of  Antrim  and 
More  Songs  of  the  Glens  of  Antrim 


BY 

MOIRA  O'NEILL 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  ELF  ERRANT,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


Two  VOLUMES  IN  ONE 


gorfe 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1922 

All  rights  reserved 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


COPYRIGHT,  1921  AND  1922, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  printed.     Published  February,  1922. 


Press  of 

J.  J.  Little  &  Ives  Company 
New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


si 
' 


TO 


w.  c.  s. 

O      There'  a  house  upon  the  sea-sand,  a  white  house  an'  low, 

The  gulls  are  flyin'  over  it,  the  red  roses  blow. 
By  night  the  waves  are  breakin',  an'  the  moon  is  on  the 

sea; 
^          Sure  all  that  I  love  are  there,  all  that  love  me,  — 

^  Only  one. 

£?       There'  a  house  upon  the  prairie  in  the  lone  North-  West, 

In  the  flowery,  silent  summer,  on  a  green  hill's  breast  ; 

Where  mountains  stretch  across  the  sky  the  world's  end 

must  be, 
An'  none  that  I  love  are  there,  none  that  love  me,  — 

Only  one. 

I  dreamt  of  gentle  Ireland  beneath  the  Northern  Light, 
^  The  waves  that  broke  on  Ireland  were  callin'  me  by 

<*  night  ; 

v*;       Till  back  across  the  salt  sea,  back  against  the  sun 

I  took  the  way  the  birds  know,  an'  woke  in  Cushen- 
\^  dun,  — 

Not  with  you. 


Oh,  what  about  the  roses  then,  an'  what  about  the  strand  ! 

For  now  'tis  wantin'  back  I  am  to  that  lone  land; 
'Tis  the  other  house  I'm  seein'  on  the  green  hill's  breast, 
An'  a  trail  across  the  prairie  that's  goin'  south  an' 
west,  — 

Back  to  you. 


PREFACE. 

These  "Songs  of  the  Glens  of  Antrim"  were 
written  by  a  Glenswoman  in  the  dialect  of  the 
Glens,  and  chiefly  for  the  pleasure  of  other  Glens- 
people. 

By  the  courtesy  of  the  Editors  of  'Blackwood' 
and  the  'Spectator'  they  are  republished  here. 

MOIRA  O'NEILL. 


(vii) 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE  SONG  OF  GLEN  DUN i 

CORRYMEELA       ........  4 

MARRIAGE .  7 

SEA  WRACK 9 

A  BROKEN  SONG u 

THE  FAIRY  LOUGH 12 

A  SONG  OF  GLENANN 14 

"FORGETTIN' " 16 

DENNY'S  DAUGHTER 18 

LOST 20 

"CUTTIN'  RUSHES" 21 

"THE  OULD  LAD" 24 

THE  RACHRAY  MAN 27 

BIRDS 29 

JOHNEEN 31 

"BEAUTY'S  A  FLOWER" 34 

THE  BOY  FROM  BALLYTEARIM      ...  36 

I  MIND  THE  DAY 39 

GRACE  FOR  LIGHT 41 

(ix) 


THE  GRAND  MATCH 43 

THE  SAILOR  MAN 45 

AT   SEA 48 

"LOOKIN'  BACK" 50 

THE  NORTH-WEST—CANADA   ....  52 

BACK  TO  IRELAND S4 


(x) 


Songs  of 
The  Glens  of  Antrim 


THE  SONG  OF  GLEN  DUN. 


Sure  this  is  blessed  Erin  an'  this  the  same  glen, 
The  gold  is  on  the  whin-bush,  the  wather  sings 

again, 

The  Fairy  Thorn's  in  flower, — an'  what  ails  my 
heart  then? 

Flower  o'  the  May, 

Flower  o'  the  May, 

What  about  the  May  time,  an'  he  far  away ! 

Summer  loves  the  green  glen,  the  white  bird  loves 

the  sea, 
An'  the  wind  must  kiss  the  heather  top,  an'  the  red 

bell  hides  a  bee; 

(i) 


As  the  bee  is  dear  to  the  honey-flower,  so  one  is 
dear  to  me. 

Flower  o'  the  rose, 
Flower  o'  the  rose, 
A  thorn  pricked  me  one  day,  but  nobody  knows. 

The  bracken  up  the  braeside  has  rusted  in  the 

air, 
Three  birches  lean  together,  so  silver  limbed  an' 

fair, 

Och !  golden  leaves  are  flyin'  fast,  but  the  scarlet 
roan  is  rare. 

Berry  o'  the  roan, 
Berry  o'  the  roan, 

The  wind  sighs  among  the  trees,  but  I  sigh 
alone. 

I  knit  beside  the  turf  fire,  I  spin  upon  the  wheel, 
Winter  nights  for  thinkin'  long,  round  runs  the 
reel.  .  .  . 

(2) 


But  he  never  knew,  he  never  knew  that  here  for 
him  I'd  kneel. 

Sparkle  o'  the  fire, 
Sparkle  o'  the  fire, 

Mother  Mary,  keep  my  love,  an'  send  me  my 
desire ! 


(3) 


CORRYMEELA. 


Over  here  in  England  I'm  helpin'  wi'  the  hay, 
An'  I  wisht  I  was  in  Ireland  the  livelong  day; 

Weary  on  the  English  hay,  an' vsorra  take  the 

wheat! 
Och!  Corrymeela  an'  the  blue  sky  over  it. 

There's  a  deep  dumb  river  flowin'  by  beyont  the 

heavy  trees, 
This  livin'  air  is  moithered  wi'  the  bummin'  o' 

the  bees; 
I  wisht  I'd  hear  the  Claddagh  burn  go  runnin' 

through  the  heat 
Past  Corrymeela,  wi'  the  blue  sky  over  it. 

The  people  that's  in  England  is  richer  nor  the 
Jews, 

(4) 


There'   not  the   smallest  young  gossoon  but 

thravels  in  his  shoes! 
I'd  give  the  pipe  between  me  teeth  to  see  a  barefut 

child, 
Och!  Corrymeela  an'  the  low  south  wind. 

Here's  hands  so  full  o'  money  an'  hearts  so  full  o' 

care, 
By  the  luck  o'  love !  I'd  still  go  light  for  all  I 

did  go  bare. 
"God  save  ye,  colleen  dhas,"  I  said :  the  girl  she 

thought  me  wild. 
Far  Corrymeela,  an'  the  low  south  wind. 

D'ye  mind  me  now,  the  song  at  night  is  mortial 

hard  to  raise, 
The  girls  are  heavy  goin'  here,  the  boys  are  ill 

to  plase; 
When  one'st  I'm  out  this  workin'  hive,  'tis  I'll 

be  back  again — 
Ay,  Corrymeela,  in  the  same  soft  rain. 

(5) 


The  puff  o'  smoke  from  one  ould  roof  before  an 

English  town! 
For  a  shaugh  wid  Andy  Feelan  here  I'd  give  a 

silver  crown, 
For  a  curl  o'  hair  like  Mollie's  ye'll  ask  the  like  in 

vain, 
Sweet  Corrymeela,  an'  the  same  soft  rain. 


(6) 


MARRIAGE. 


I  met  an'  ould  caillach  I  knowed  right  well  on  the 

brow  o'  Carnashee: 

"The  top  o'  the  mornin' !"  I  says  to  her.    "God 
save  ye!"  she  says  to  me: 
"An'  och !  if  it's  you, 
Tell  me  true, 

When  are  ye  goin'  to  marry?" 
"I'm  here,"  says  I,  "to  be  married  to-morrow, 
Wi'  the  man  to  find  an'  the  money  to  borrow." 

"As  sure  as  ye're  young  an'  fair,"  says  she,  "one 

day  ye'll  be  ugly  an'  ould. 

If  ye  haven't  a  husband,  who'll  care,"  says  she, 
"to  call  ye  in  out  o'  the  could  ? 
Left  to  yerself, 
Laid  on  the  shelf, — 
(7) 


Now  is  yer  time  to  marry. 
Musha !  don't  tell  me  ye'll  be  married  to-morrow, 
Wi'  the  man  to  find  an'  the  money  to  borrow." 

"I  may  be  dead  ere  I'm  ould,"  says  I,  "for  nobody 

knows  their  day. 

I  never  was  fear'd  o'  the  could,"  says  I,  "but  I'm 
f ear'd  to  give  up  me  way. 
Good  or  bad, 
Sorry  or  glad, 

"Tis  mine  no  more  when  I  marry. 
So  here  stand  I,  to  be  married  to-morrow, 
Wi'  the  man  to  find  an'  the  money  to  borrow." 

The  poor  ould  caillach  went  down  the  hill  shakin' 

her  finger  at  me. 

"  'Tis  on  top  o'  the  world  ye  think  yerself  still,  an' 
that's  what  it  is,"  says  she. 
But  thon  was  the  day 
Dan  Macllray 
Had  me  promise  to  marry. 
So  here  stand  I,  to  be  married  to-morrow, — 
The  man  he  is  found,  but  the  money's  to  borrow. 
(8) 


SEA  WRACK. 


The  wrack  was  dark  an'  shiny  where  it  floated  in 

the  sea, 
There  was  no  one  in  the  brown  boat  but  only  him 

an'  me; 

Him  to  cut  the  sea  wrack,  me  to  mind  the  boat, 
An'  not  a  word  between  us  the  hours  we  were 
afloat. 

The  wet  wrack, 

The  sea  wrack, 

The  wrack  was  strong  to  cut. 

We  laid  it  on  the  grey  rocks  to  wither  in  the  sun, 
An'  what  should  call  my  lad  then,  to  sail  from 
Cushendun? 

(9) 


With  a  low  moon,  a  full  tide,  a  swell  upon  the 

deep, 
Him  to  sail  the  old  boat,  me  to  fall  asleep. 

The  dry  wrack, 

The  sea  wrack, 

The  wrack  was  dead  so  soon. 

There'  a  fire  low  upon  the  rocks  to  burn  the 

wrack  to  kelp, 
There'  a  boat  gone  down  upon  the  Moyle,  an' 

sorra  one  to  help ! 

Him  beneath  the  salt  sea,  me  upon  the  shore, 
By  sunlight  or  moonlight  we'll  lift  the  wrack  no 
more. 

The  dark  wrack, 

The  sea  wrack, 

The  wrack  may  drift  ashore. 


A  BROKEN  SONG. 


'Where  am  I  from?'  From  the  green  hills  of  Erin. 
'Have  I  no  song  then?'  My  songs  are  all  sung. 
'What  o'  my  love?'    Tis  alone  I  am  farm'. 
Old  grows  my  heart,  an'  my  voice  yet  is  young. 

'//  she  was  tall?'    Like  a  king's  own  daughter. 
'If  she  was  fair?'    Like  a  mornin'  o'  May. 
When   she'd   come   laughin'    'twas   the   runnin' 

wather, 
When  she'd  come  blushin'  'twas  the  break  o'  day. 

'Where  did  she  dwell?'    Where  one'st  I  had  my 

dwellin'. 
'Who  loved  her  best?'    There'  no  one  now  will 

know. 
'Where  is  she  gone?'     Och,  why  would  I  be 

tellin'! 

Where  she  is  gone  there  I  can  never  go. 
(ii) 


THE  FAIRY  LOUGH. 


Loughareema !    Loughareema 

Lies  so  high  among  the  heather ; 
A  little  lough,  a  dark  lough, 

The  wather's  black  an'  deep. 
Ould  herons  go  a-fishin'  there 

An'  sea-gulls  all  together 
Float  roun*  the  one  green  island 

On  the  fairy  lough  asleep. 

Loughareema,  Loughareema ; 

When  the  sun  goes  down  at  seven, 
When  the  hills  are  dark  an'  airy, 

'Tis  a  curlew  whistles  sweet ! 
Then  somethin'  rustles  all  the  reeds 

That  stand  so  thick  an'  even; 

(12) 


A  little  wave  runs  up  the  shore 
An'  flees,  as  if  on  feet. 

Loughareema,  Loughareema ! 

Stars  come  out,  an'  stars  are  hidin' ; 
The  wather  whispers  on  the  stones, 

The  flittherin'  moths  are  free. 
One'st  before  the  mornin'  light 

The  Horsemen  will  come  ridin' 
Roun'  an'  roun'  the  fairy  lough, 

An'  no  one  there  to  see. 


(13) 


A  SONG  OF  GLENANN. 


Och,  when  we  lived  in  ould  Glenann 

Meself  could  lift  a  song ! 
An'  ne'er  an  hour  by  day  or  dark 

Would  I  be  thinkin'  long. 

The  weary  wind  might  take  the  roof, 
The  rain  might  lay  the  corn; 

We'd  up  an'  look  for  betther  luck 
About  the  morrow's  morn. 

But  since  we  come  away  from  there 

An'  far  across  the  say, 
I  still  have  wrought,  an'  still  have  thought 

The  way  I'm  doin'  the  day. 
(14) 


An'  now  we're  quarely  betther  fixed, 
In  troth !  there'  nothin'  wrong : 

But  me  an'  mine,  by  rain  an'  shine 
We  do  be  thinkin'  long. 


(15) 


"FORGETTINV 


The  night  when  last  I  saw  my  lad 
His  eyes  were  bright  an'  wet. 

He  took  my  two  hands  in  his  own, 
"  'Tis  well,"  says  he,  "we're  met. 

Asthore  machree!  the  likes  o'  me 
I  bid  ye  now  forget." 

\ 

Ah,  sure  the  same's  a  thriflin'  thing, 

'Tis  more  I'd  do  for  him! 
I  mind  the  night  I  promised  well, 

Away  on  Ballindim. — 
An'  every  little  while  or  so 

I  thry  forgettin'  Jim. 

It  shouldn't  take  that  long  to  do 
An'  him  not  very  tall : 
(16) 


Tis  quare  the  way  I'll  hear  his  voice, 

A  boy  that's  out  o'  call, — 
An'  whiles  I'll  see  him  stand  as  plain 

As  e'er  a  six-fut  wall. 

• 
Och,  never  fear,  my  jewel ! 

I'd  forget  ye  now  this  minute, 
If  I  only  had  a  notion 

O'  the  way  I  should  begin  it; 
But  first  an'  last  it  isn't  known 

The  heap  o'  throuble's  in  it. 

Meself  began  the  night  ye  went 

An'  hasn't  done  it  yet; 
I'm  nearly  fit  to  give  it  up. 

For  where's  the  use  to  fret? — 
An'  the  memory's  fairly  spoilt  on  me 

Wid  mindin'  to  forget. 


d7) 


DENNY'S  DAUGHTER. 


Denny's  daughter  stood  a  minute  in  the  field  I 

be  to  pass, 
All  as  quiet  as  her  shadow  lyin'  by  her  on  the 

grass ; 
In  her  hand  a  switch  o'  hazel  from  the  nut  tree's 

crooked  root, 

Well   I   mind  the  crown  o'   clover  crumpled 
undher  one  bare  foot. 
For  the  look  of  her, 
The  look  of  her 
Comes  back  on  me  to-day, — 
Wi'  the  eyes  of  her, 
The  eyes  of  her 
That  took  me  on  the  way. 
(18) 


Though  I  seen  poor  Denny's  daughter  white  an' 

stiff  upon  her  bed, 

Yet  I  be  to  think  there's  sunlight  fallin'  some- 
where on  her  head: 
She'll  be  singin'  Ave  Mary  where  the  flowers 

never  wilt, 

She,  the  girl  my  own  hands  covered  wi'  the 
narrow  daisy-quilt.  .  .  . 
For  the  love  of  her, 
The  love  of  her 
That  would  not  be  my  wife : 
An'  the  loss  of  her, 
The  loss  of  her 
Has  left  me  lone  for  life, 


(19) 


LOST. 

Listen,  oh  my  jewel,  I  would  say, — 

Only  wait  to'  I  can  get  the  word : 
Sure  I  thought  I  had  it  sweet  an'  gay 

Like  the  bravest  song  o'  summer  bird. 
Faith !  I  knew  it  well  an'  very  well 

When  this  hour  the  rain  begun  to  fall 
Now  the  sorra  one  o'  me  can  tell 

What  about  it  was  at  all,  at  all. 

Listen,  oh  my  jewel,  I  was  wrong, — 

Never,  never  lived  a  word  so  sad ; 
Not  the  heavy  sea  that  drives  along 

Bears  such  weighty  throuble  as  it  had. 
Och  anee!  wi'  ne'er  a  voice  to  cry, 

Like  the  weary  cloud  or  drownin'  moon 
So  it  sank,  or  so  was  carried  by : 

N'  :er  told  is  all  forgot  so  soon. 

(20) 


"CUTTIN'  RUSHES." 


Oh  maybe  it  was  yesterday,  or  fifty  years  ago ! 
Meself  was  risin'  early  on  a  day  for  cuttin' 

rushes, 
Walkin'  up  the  Brabla'  burn,  still  the  sun  was 

low, 
Now  I'd  hear  the  burn  run  an'  then  I'd  hear  the 

thrushes. 
Young,    still    young! — an'    drenchin'    wet    the 

grass, 
Wet  the  golden  honeysuckle  hangin'  sweetly 

down; 

Here,  lad,  here!  will  ye  follow  where  I  pass, 
An'  find  me  cuttin'  rushes  on  the  mountain. 

Then  was  it  only  yesterday,  or  fifty  years  or  so? 

(21) 


Rip  pin'  round  the  bog  pools  high  among  the 

heather, 
The  hook  it  made  me  hand  sore,  I  had  to  leave 

it  go, 
'Twas  he  that  cut  the  rushes  then  for  me  to 

bind  together. 

Come,  dear,  come ! — an'  back  along  the  burn. 
See   the   darlin'    honeysuckle    hangin'    like   a 

crown. 
Quick,  one  kiss, — sure,  there'  some  one  at  the 

turn! 

"Oh,  we're  afther  cuttin'  rushes  on  the  moun- 
tain." 


Yesterday,  yesterday,  or  fifty  years  ago.  .  .  . 
I  waken  out  o'  dreams  when  I  hear  the  summer 

thrushes. 
Oh,  that's  the  Brabla'  burn,  I  can  hear  it  sing  an* 

flow, 

For  all  that's  fair,  I'd  sooner  see  a  bunch  o' 
green  rushes. 

(22) 


Run,  burn,  run!  can  ye  mind  when  we  were 

young  ? 
The  honeysuckle  hangs  above,  the  pool  is  dark 

an'  brown: 

Sing,  burn,  sing!  can  ye  mind  the  song  ye  sung 
The  day  we  cut  the  rushes  on  the  mountain? 


(23) 


"THE  OULD  LAD." 


I  mind  meself  a  wee  boy  wi'  no  plain  talk, 
An'  standin'  not  the  height  o'  two  peats ; 
There  was  things  meself  consated  'or  the  time  that 

I  could  walk, 

An'  who's  to  tell  when  wit  an'  childer  meets  ? 
'Twas  the  daisies  down  in  the  low  grass, 

The  stars  high  up  in  the  skies, 
The  first  I  knowed  of  a  mother's  face 
Wi'  the  kind  love  in  her  eyes, 

Och,  och ! 
The  kind  love  in  her  eyes. 

I  went  the  way  of  other  lads  that's  neither  good 

nor  bad, 
An'  still,  d'ye  see,  a  lad  has  far  to  go ; 

(24) 


But  the  things  meself  consated  when  I  wasn't  sick 

nor  sad, 

They're  aisy  told,  an'  little  use  to  know. 
'Twas  whiles  a  boat  on  the  say  beyont, 

An'  whiles  a  girl  on  the  shore, 
An'  whiles  a  scrape  o'  the  fiddle-strings, 
Or  maybe  an  odd  thing  more 

In  troth ! 
Maybe  an  odd  thing  more. 

A  man,  they  say,  in  spite  of  all,  is  betther  for  a 

wife, 

In-undher  this  ould  roof  I  live  me  lone ; 
I  never  seen  the  woman  yet  I  wanted  all  me 

life, 

An'  I  never  made  me  pillow  on  a  stone. 
"Pis  "fancy  buys  the  ribbon"  an'  all, 

An'  fancy  sticks  to  the  young; 
But  a  man  of  his  years  can  do  wi'  a  pipe 
Can  smoke  an'  hould  his  tongue, 

D'ye  mind, 

Smoke  an'  hould  his  tongue. 
(25) 


Ye  see  me  now  an  ould  man,  his  work  near  done, 

Sure  the  hair  upon  me  head's  gone  white ; 
But  the  things  meself  consated  'or  the  time  that  I 

could  run, 

They're  the  nearest  to  me  heart  this  night. 
Just  the  daisies  down  in  the  low  grass, 

The  stars  high  up  in  the  skies, 
The  first  I  knowed  of  a  mother's  face 
Wi'  the  kind  love  in  her  eyes, 

Och,  och! 
The  kind  love  in  her  eyes. 


(26) 


THE  RACHRAY  MAN. 

Och,  what  was  it  got  me  at  all  that  time 
To  promise  I'd  marry  a  Rachray  man? 
An'  now  he'll  not  listen  to  rason  or  rhyme, 
He's  strivin'  to  hurry  me  all  that  he  can. 
"Come  on,  an'  ye  be  to  come  on !"  says  he, 
"Ye're  bound  for  the  Island,  to  live  wi'  me." 

See  Rachray  Island  beyont  in  the  bay, 
An'  the  dear  knows  what  they  be  doin'  out  there 
But  fishin'  an'  fightin'  an'  tearin'  away, 
An'  who's  to  hindher,  an'  what  do  they  care? 
The  goodness  can  tell  what  'ud  happen  to  me 
When  Rachray  'ud  have  me,  anee,  anee! 

I  might  have  took  Pether  from  over  the  hill, 
A  dacent  poacher,  the  kind  poor  boy : 
(27) 


Could  I  keep  the  ould  places  about  me  still 
I'd  never  set  foot  out  o'  sweet  Bally voy. 
My  sorra  on  Rachray,  the  could  sea-caves, 
An'  blackneck  divers,  an'  weary  ould  waves ! 

I'll  never  win  back  now,  whatever  may  fall, 
So  give  me  good  luck,  for  ye'Il  see  me  no  more ; 
Sure  an  Island  man  is  the  mischief  an'  all — 
An'  me  that  never  was  married  before ! 

Oh  think  o'  my  fate  when  ye  dance  at  a  fair, 
In  Rachray  there'  no  Christianity  there. 


(28) 


BIRDS. 

Sure  maybe  ye've  heard  the  storm-thrush 

Whistlin'  bould  in  March, 
Before  there'  a  primrose  peepin'  out, 

Or  a  wee  red  cone  on  the  larch ; 
Whistlin'  the  sun  to  come  out  o'  the  cloud, 

An'  the  wind  to  come  over  the  sea, 
But  for  all  he  can  whistle  so  clear  an'  loud, 

He's  never  the  bird  for  me. 

Sure  maybe  ye've  seen  the  song-thrush 

After  an  April  rain 
Slip  from  in-undher  the  drippin'  leaves, 

Wishful  to  sing  again ; 
An'  low  wi'  love  when  he's  near  the  nest, 
(29) 


An'  loud  from  the  top  o'  the  tree, 
But  for  all  he  can  flutter  the  heart  in  your  breast 
He's  never  the  bird  for  me. 

Sure  maybe  ye've  heard  the  cushadoo 

Callin'  his  mate  in  May, 
When  one  sweet  thought  is  the  whole  of  his  life, 

An'  he  tells  it  the  one  sweet  way. 
But  my  heart  is  sore  at  the  cushadoo 

Filled  wid  his  own  soft  glee, 
Over  an'  over  his  "me  an'  you !" 

He's  never  the  bird  for  me. 

Sure  maybe  ye've  heard  the  red-breast 

Singin'  his  lone  on  a  thorn, 
Mindin'  himself  o'  the  dear  days  lost, 

Brave  wid  his  heart  forlorn. 
The  time  is  in  dark  November, 

An'  no  spring  hopes  has  he : 
"Remember,"  he  sings,  "remember!" 

Ay,  thon's  the  wee  bird  for  me. 

(30) 


JOHNEEN. 

Sure  he's  five  months  old,  an'  he's  two  foot  long, 

Baby  Johneen; 
Watch  yerself  now,  for  he's  terrible  sthrong, 

Baby  Johneen. 

An'  his  fists  'ill  be  up  if  ye  make  any  slips, 
He  has  finger-ends  like  the  daisy-tips, 
But  he'll  have  ye  attend  to  the  words  of  his  lips, 

Will  Johneen. 

There'  nobody  can  rightly  tell  the  colour  of  his 
eyes, 

This  Johneen; 

For  they're  partly  o'  the  earth  an'  still  they're 
partly  o'  the  skies, 

Like  Johneen. 
(30 


So  far  as  he's  thravelled  he's  been  laughin'  all  the 

way, 
For  the  little  soul  is  quare  an'  wise,  the  little  heart 

is  gay; 
An'  he  likes  the  merry  daffodils,  he  thinks  they'd 

do  to  play 

With  Johneen. 

He'll  sail  a  boat  yet,  if  he  only  has  his  luck, 

Young  Johneen, 
For  he  takes  to  the  wather  like  any  little  duck, 

Boy  Johneen; 

Sure  them  are  the  hands  now  to  pull  on  a  rope, 
An'  nate  feet  for  walkin'  the  deck  on  a  slope, 
But  the  ship  she  must  wait  a  wee  while  yet,  I  hope, 

For  Johneen. 

For  we  couldn't  do  wantin'  him,  not  just  yet, 

Och,  Johneen; 

Tis  you  that  are  the  daisy,  an'  you  that  are  the 
pet, 

Wee  Johneen. 
(32) 


Here's  to  your  health,  an'  we'll  dhrink  it  to-night. 
Slainte  gal,  avic  machree!  live  an'  do  right, 
Slainte  gal  avourneen!  may  your  days  be  bright, 

Johneen ! 


(33) 


"BEAUTY'S  A  FLOWER." 


Youth's  for  an  hour, 

Beauty's  a  flower, 

But  love  is  the  jewel  that  wins  the  world. 

Youth's  for  an  hour,  an'  the  taste  o'  life  is  sweet, 
Ailes  was  a  girl  that  stepped  on  two  bare  feet ; 
In  all  my  days  I  never  seen  the  one  as  fair  as  she, 
I'd  have  lost  my  life  for  Ailes,  an'  she  never  cared 
for  me. 

Beauty's  a  flower,  an'  the  days  o'  life  are  long, 
There'  little  knowin'  who  may  live  to  sing  an- 
other song; 

For  Ailes  was  the  fairest,  but  another  is  my  wife, 
An'  Mary — God  be  good  to  her ! — is  all  I  love  in 
life. 

(34) 


Youth's  for  an  hour, 

Beauty's  a  flower, 

But  love  is  the  jewel  that  wins  the  world. 


(35) 


THE  BOY  FROM  BALLYTEARIM 


He  was  born  in  Ballytearim,  where  there'  little 

work  to  do, 
An'  the  longer  he  was  livin*  there  the  poorer  still 

he  grew; 
Says  he  till  all  belongin'  him,  "Now  happy  may  ye 

be! 
But  I'm  off  to  find  me  fortune,"  sure  he  says,  says 

he. 

"All  the  gold  in  Ballytearim  is  what's  stickin  to 

the  whin ; 
All  the  crows  in  Ballytearim  has  a  way  o'  gettin' 

thin." 
So  the  people  did  be  praisin'  him  the  year  he  wint 

away, — 
"Troth,  I'll  hould  ye  can  do  it,"  sure  they  says, 

says  they. 

(36) 


Och,  the  boy  'ud  still  be  thinkin'  long,  an'  he 

across  the  foam, 
An'  the  two  ould  hearts  be  thinkin'  long  that 

waited  for  him  home: 
But  a  girl  that  sat  her  lone  an'  whiles,  her  head 

upon  her  knee, 
Would  be  sighin'  low  for  sorra,  not  a  word  says 

she. 

He  won  home  to  Ballytearim,  an'  the  two  were 

livin'  yet, 
When  he  heard  where  she  was  lyin'  now  the  eyes 

of  him  were  wet; 
"Faith,  here's  me  two  fists  full  o'  gold,  an'  little 

good  to  me 
When  I'll  never  meet  an'  kiss  her,"  sure  he  says, 

says  he. 

Then  the  boy  from  Ballytearim  set  his  face  an- 
other road, 

An'  whatever  luck  has  followed  him  was  never 
rightly  knowed: 

(37) 


But  still  it's  truth  I'm  tellin'  ye — or  may  I  never 

sin! — 
All  the  gold  in  Ballytearim  is  what's  stickin'  to 

the  whin. 


(38) 


I  MIND  THE  DAY. 


I  mind  the  day  I'd  wish  I  was  a  say-gull  flyin'  far, 

For  then  I'd  fly  an'  find  you  in  the  West; 
An'  I'd  wish  I  was  a  little  rose  as  sweet  as  roses 

are, 
For  then  you'd  maybe  wear  it  on  your  breast, 

Achray! 
You'd  maybe  take  an'  wear  it  on  your  breast. 

I'd  wish  I  could  be  living  near,  to  love  you  day 

an'  night, 

To  let  no  throuble  touch  you  or  annoy; 
I'd  wish  I  could  be  dyin'  here  to  rise  a  spirit  light, 
If  Them  above  'ud  let  me  bring  you  joy, 

Achray! 
If  Them  above  'ud  let  me  win  you  joy. 

An'  now  I  wish  no  wishes,  nor  ever  fall  a  tear, 
Nor  take  a  thought  beyont  the  way  I'm  led : 
(39) 


I  mind  the  day  that's  over-by,  an'  bless  the  day 

that's  here, 
There  be  to  come  a  day  when  we'll  be  dead, 

Achray! 
A  longer,  lighter  day  when  we'll  be  dead. 


(40) 


GRACE  FOR  LIGHT. 


When  we  were  little  childer  we  had  a  quare  wee 

house, 
Away  up  in  the  heather  by  the  head  o'  Brabla' 

burn; 
The  hares  we'd  see  them  scootin',  an'  we'd  hear 

the  crowin'  grouse, 

An'  when  we'd  all  be  in  at  night  ye'd  not  get 
room  to  turn. 

The  youngest  two  She'd  put  to  bed,  their  faces  to 

the  wall, 

An'  the  lave  of  us  could  sit  aroun',  just  any- 
where we  might; 

Herself  'ud  take  the  rush-dip  an'  light  it  for  us  all, 
An'  "God  be  thanked!"  she  would  say, — "now 
we  have  a  light." 

(41) 


Then  we  be  to  quet  the  laughin'  an'  pushin'  on 

the  floor, 
An'  think  on  One  who  called  us  to  come  and  be 

forgiven ; 
Himself  'ud  put  his  pipe  down,  an'  say  the  good 

word  more, 

"May  the  Lamb  o'  God  lead  us  all  to  the  Light 
o'  Heaven!" 

There'  a  wheen  things  that  used  to  be  an'  now 

has  had  their  day, 
The  nine  Glens  of  Antrim  can  show  ye  many  a 

sight ; 
But  not  the  quare  wee  house  where  we  lived  up 

Brabla'  way, 

Nor  a  child  in  all  the  nine  Glens  that  knows  the 
grace  for  light. 


(42) 


THE  GRAND  MATCH. 


Dennis  was  hearty  when  Dennis  was  young, 
High  was  his  step  in  the  jig  that  he  sprung, 
He  had  the  looks  an'  the  sootherin'  tongue, — • 
An'  he  wanted  a  girl  wid  a  fortune. 

Nannie  was  grey-eyed  an'  Nannie  was  tall, 
Fair  was  the  face  hid  in-undher  her  shawl, 
Troth !  an'  he  liked  her  the  best  o'  them  all, — 
But  she'd  not  a  traneen  to  her  fortune. 

He  be  to  look  out  for  a  likelier  match, 
So  he  married  a  girl  that  was  counted  a  catch, 
An'  as  ugly  as  need  be,  the  dark  little  patch, — 
But  that  was  a  thrifle,  he  tould  her. 

She  brought  him  her  good-lookin'  gold  to  admire, 
She  brought  him  her  good-lookin'  cows  to  his 
byre, 

(43) 


But  far  from  good-lookin'  she  sat  by  his  fire, — 
An'  paid  him  that  "thrifle"  he  tould  her. 

He  met  pretty  Nan  when  a  month  had  gone  by, 
An'  he  thought  like  a  fool  to  get  round  her  he'd 

try; 

With  a  smile  on  her  lip  an'  a  spark  in  her  eye, 
She  said,  "How  is  the  woman  that  owns  ye?" 

Och,  never  be  tellin'  the  life  that  he's  led ! 

Sure  many's  the  night  that  he'll  wish  himself 

dead, 

For  the  sake  o'  two  eyes  in  a  pretty  girl's  head, — 
An'  the  tongue  o'  the  woman  that  owns  him. 


(44) 


THE  SAILOR  MAN. 


Sure  a  terrible  time  I  was  out  o'  the  way, 

Over  the  sea,  over  the  sea, 
Till  I  come  back  to  Ireland  one  sunny  day, — 

Betther  for  me,  betther  for  me 
The  first  time  me  foot  got  the  feel  o'  the  ground 

I  was  sthrollin'  along  in  an  Irish  city, 
That  hasn't  its  aquil  the  world  around 

For  the  air  that  is  sweet  an'  the  girls  that  are 
pretty. 

Light  on  their  feet  now  they  passed  me  an'  sped, 
Give  you  me  word,  give  you  me  word, 

Every  girl  wid  a  turn  o'  the  head 
Just  like  a  bird,  just  like  a  bird ; 
(45) 


An'  the  lashes  so  thick  round  their  beautiful  eyes 
Shinin'  to  tell  you  it's  fair  time  o'  day  wid  them, 

Back  in  me  heart  wid  a  kind  o'  surprise 
I  think  how  the  Irish  girls  has  the  way  wid 
them! 

Och  man  alive !  but  it's  little  ye  know 

That  never  was  there,  never  was  there. 
Look  where  ye  like  for  them,  long  may  ye  go, — 

What  do  I  care?  what  do  I  care? 
Plenty  as  blackberries  where  will  ye  find 

Rare  pretty  girls  not  by  two  nor  by  three  o' 

them? 
Only  just  there  where  they  grow,  dy'e  mind 

Still  like  the  blackberries,  more  than  ye  see  o' 
them. 

Long,  long  away,  an'  no  matther  how  far, 
Tis  the  girls  that  I  miss,  the  girls  that  I  miss : 

Women  are  round  ye  wherever  ye  are 
Not  worth  a  kiss,  not  worth  a  kiss. 
(46) 


Over  in  Ireland  many's  the  one, — 

Well  do  I  know,  that  has  nothing  to  say  wid 

them, — 
Sweeter  than  anythin'  undher  the  sun, 

Och,  'tis  the  Irish  girls  has  the  way  wid  them ! 


(47) 


AT  SEA. 

'Tis  the  long  blue  Head  o'  Garron 

From  the  sea, 
Och,  we're  sailin'  past  the  Garron 

On  the  sea. 

Now  Glen  Ariff  lies  behind, 
Where  the  waters  fall  an'  wind 
By  the  willows  o'  Glen  Ariff  to  the  sea. 

Ould  Luirgedan  rises  green 

By  the  sea, 

Ay,  he  stands  between  the  glens 
An'  the  sea. 

Now  we're  past  the  darklin'  caves, 
Where  the  breakin'  summer  waves 
Wandher  in  wi'  their  trouble  from  the  sea. 
(48) 


But  Cushendun  lies  nearer 

To  the  sea, 
An'  thon's  a  shore  is  dearer 

Still  to  me, 

For  the  land  that  I  am  leavin' 
Sure  the  heart  I  have  is  grievin', 
But  the  ship  has  set  her  sails  for  the  sea. 

Och,  what's  this  is  deeper 

Than  the  sea? 

An'  what's  this  is  stronger 

Nor  the  sea? 

When  the  call  is  "all  or  none," 

An'  the  answer  "all  for  one," 

Then  we  be  to  sail  away  across  the  sea. 


(49) 


"LOOKIN'  BACK." 

Wathers  o'  Moyle  an'  the  white  gulls  flyin', 
Since  I  was  near  ye  what  have  I  seen? 
Deep  great  seas,  an'  a  sthrong  wind  sighin' 
Night  an'  day  where  the  waves  are  green. 
Struth  na  Moile,  the  wind  goes  sighin' 
Over  the  waste  o'  wathers  green. 

Slemish  an'  Trostan,  dark  wi'  heather, 
High  are  the  Rockies,  airy-blue; 
Sure  ye  have  snows  in  the  winter  weather, 
Here  they're  lyin'  the  long  year  through. 
Snows  are  fair  in  the  summer  weather, 
Och,  an'  the  shadows  between  are  blue ! 

Lone  Glen  Dun  an'  the  wild  glen  flowers, 
Little  ye  know  if  the  prairie  is  sweet. 
Roses  for  miles,  an'  redder  than  ours 
(50) 


Spring  here  undher  the  horses'  feet, 

Ay,  an'  the  black-eyed  gold  sunflowers, — 

Not  as  the  glen  flowers  small  an'  sweet. 

Wathers  o'  Moyle,  I  hear  ye  callin' 
Clearer  for  half  o'  the  world  between, 
Antrim  hills  an'  the  wet  rain  fallin' 
Whiles  ye  are  nearer  than  snow-tops  keen: 
Dreams  o'  the  night  an'  a  night  wind  callin'- 
What  is  the  half  o'  the  world  between  ? 


(50 


THE  NORTH-WEST—CANADA. 


Oh  would  ye  hear,  and  would  ye  hear 

Of  the  windy,  wide  North- West? 

Faith !  'tis  a  land  as  green  as  the  sea, 

That  rolls  as  far  and  rolls  as  free, 

With  drifts  of  flowers,  so  many  there  be, 
Where  the  cattle  roam  and  rest. 

Oh  could  ye  see,  and  could  ye  see 

The  great  gold  skies  so  clear, 
The  rivers  that  race  through  the  pine-shade  dark, 
The  mountainous  snows  that  take  no  mark, 
Sun-lit  and  high  on  the  Rockies  stark, 

So  far  they  seem  as  near. 

Then  could  ye  feel,  and  could  ye  feel 
How  fresh  is  a  Western  night ! 
(52) 


When  the  long  land-breezes  rise  and  pass 
And  sigh  in  the  rustling  prairie  grass, 
When  the  dark-blue  skies  are  clear  as  glass, 
And  the  same  old  stars  are  bright. 

But  could  ye  know,  and  for  ever  know 

The  word  of  the  young  North- West ! 
A  word  she  breathes  to  the  true  and  bold, 
A  word  misknown  to  the  false  and  cold, 
A  word  that  never  was  spoken  or  sold, 
But  the  one  that  knows  is  blest. 


(53) 


BACK  TO  IRELAND. 


Oh  tell  me,  will  I  ever  win  to  Ireland  again, 

Astore!  from  the  far  North- West? 
Have  we  given  all  the  rainbows,  an'  green  woods 

an'  rain, 

For  the  suns  an'  the  snows  o'  the  West  ? 
"Them  that  goes  to  Ireland  must  thravel  night  an' 

day, 
An'  them  that  goes  to  Ireland  must  sail  across  the 

say, 
For  the  len'th  of  here  to  Ireland  is  half  the  world 

away — 

An'  you'll  lave  your  heart  behind  you  in  the  West. 
Set  your  face  for  Ireland, 
Kiss  your  friends  in  Ireland, 
But  lave  your  heart  behind  you  in  the  West." 
(54) 


On  a  dim  an'  shiny  mornin'  the  ship  she  comes  to 

land, 

Early,  oh  early  in  the  mornin', 
The  silver  wathers  o'  the  Foyle  go  slidin'  to  the 

strand. 

Whisperin',  "Ye're  welcome  in  the  mornin'." 
There's  darkness  on  the  holy  hills  I  know  are 

close  aroun', 
But  the  stars  are  shinin'  up  the  sky,  the  stars  are 

shinin'  down, 
They  make  a  golden  cross  above,  they  make  a 

golden  crown, 

An'  meself  could  tell  ye  why, — in  the  mornin'. 
Sure  an'  this  is  Ireland, 
Thank  God  for  Ireland! 
I'm  comin'  back  to  Ireland  the  mornin'. 


(55) 


More  Songs  of 
The  Glens  of  Antrim 


PREFACE. 


These  "Songs  of  the  Glens  of  Antrim"  have 
nearly  all,  like  their  predecessors,  appeared  in 
the  pages  of  'Blackwood's  Magazine.'  So  have 
the  "Songs  from  North- West  Canada." 

The  "Translations  from  Italian  Poets"  were 
written  for  a  review  of  the  'Oxford  Book  of 
Italian  Verse/  which  appeared  in  'Blackwood's 
Magazine'  for  April  1911. 

Of  the  many  unknown  friends  who  have  sent 
me  letters  and  messages,  I  desire  most  to  thank 
the  one  who  told  me  of  a  young  soldier  who  took 
my  little  book  with  him  to  the  trenches,  and  read 
the  'Songs'  to  a  comrade,  before  he  gave  his 
life  on  the  field  "for  Freedom  and  Honour." 

MOIRA  O'NEILL. 


(Hi) 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  LITTLE  SON      ....      .    *f  *;  .  57 

PADDY  THE  SLITHERS  .      .      ,    .  .'     .      .  59 

DIVIDED 62 

A  LATE  WOOING      .       ...      ...  64 

NEVER  MARRIED      .       .      .      .      „•     .      .  66 

HER  SISTER 68 

ONLY  ONE 71 

A  BUD  IN  THE  FROST 74 

THE   BLACKBIRD 76 

NEVER  LET  ON ! 78 

A  ROSE  IN  DECEMBER 81 

THE  OULD  TUNES 83 

TIDY  ANNIE 86 

THE  EMIGRANT'S  LETTER 88 

ALTANEIGH 91 

SONGS  FROM  NORTH-WEST  CANADA 

ON  THE  PRAIRIE 95 

A  MAY  SONG 98 

WILLOW  CREEK 100 

(v) 


SPRING  ON  THE  RANCHE— 

PART  I.  THE  LAST  OF  WINTER   .       .  102 

PART  II.  THE  FIRST  OF  SPRING  .       .  104 

A   HUSH    SONG 106 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM  ITALIAN  POETS. 

LAMENTO 109 

THE  CRUSADE no 

ITALIA   MIA in 

MY   ITALY 112 

MADRIGALE 113 

MADRIGAL 114 

SONETTO 116 

SONNET 117 

CANZONE 118 

SONG 119 

LA  VITA  SOLITARIA 121 

THE  SOLITARY   LIFE 122 

L'INFINITO 123 

THE  INFINITE 124 

LA  SPIGOLATRICE 125 

THE  GLEANER                                             .      .  126 


(vi) 


THE  LITTLE  SON. 


When  my  little  son  is  born  on  a  sunny  summer 

morn, 
I'll  take  him  sleepin'  in  my  arms  to  wake  beside 

the  sea, 
For  the  windy  wathers  blue  would  be  dancin'  if 

they  knew, 

An'  the  weeny  waves  that  wet  the  sand  come 
creepin'  up  to  me. 

When  my  little  son  is  here  in  the  noonday  warm 

an'  clear, 
I'll  carry  him  so  kindly  up  the  glen  to  Craiga' 

Wood; 
In  a  green  an'  tremblin'  shadow  there  I'll  hush 

my  tender  laddo, 

An'  the  flittin'  birds  'ill  quet  their  songs  as  if 
they  understood. 

(57) 


When  my  pretty  son's  awake,  och,  the  care  o'  him 

I'll  take! 
An'  we'll  never  pass  a  gentle  place  between  the 

dark  an'  day ; 
If  he's  lovely  in  his  sleep  on  his  face  a  veil  I'll 

keep, 

Or  the  wee  folk  an'  the  good  folk  might  be 
wantin'  him  away. 

When  my  darlin'  comes  to  me  he  will  lie  upon  my 

knee, — 
Though  the  world  should  be  my  pillow  he  must 

know  no  harder  place. 
Sure  a  queen's  son  may  be  cold  in  a  cradle  all  o' 

gold, 

But  my  arm  shall  be  about  him  an'  my  kiss 
upon  his  face. 


(58) 


PADDY  THE  SLITHERS. 
(Words  to  an  old  Irish  tune.) 


Ochone!  don't  be  tellin'  me  to  fiddle  or  to  play, 
Ochone !  'tis  a  pity  that  I  lived  to  see  this  day. 
I'm  fit  to  break  my  fiddle,  or  I'm  fit  to  take  an* 

die, — 
Wirra !  Paddy  the  Slithers,  could  a  woman  make 

ye  cry? 
I  asked  her   for  another  dhrink,   an'  sure  I'd 

played  an  hour, 
Oh,  who  could  think  that  music  sweet  would  turn 

a  woman  sour? 
An'  the  company  so  pleasant  sittin'  back  agin'  the 

wall, 
But  me  bould  Biddy  Brogan  ups  an'  says  before 

them  all, 

(59) 


"I'll  give  ye  no  more.     There'  a  well  in  the 

garden, 
'Tis  there  ye  may  dhrink,  an'  not  pay  a  far  den." 

I  am  Paddy  the  Slithers,  an'  my  father  was  the 

same, 

For  I  kep'  his  ould  fiddle  an'  I  won  his  ould  name, 
That  never  said  a  false  word  or  played  a  false 

note, — 
But  the  manners  o'  thon  woman  has  me  chokin' 

in  the  throat. 
I  had  played  her  "Baltigoran,"  an'  "The  Pedlar 

wid  his  Pack," 
"The  Wind  that  Shakes  the  Barley,"  an'  "When 

Tony's  Comin'  Back." 
'Twas  "The  Rockin  o'  the  Cradle"  I  was  goin'  to 

give  her  next, 
An'  troth !  if  I  had  wasted  that,  'tis  worse  I  would 

be  vext, 
Wid  her  "Not  another  dhrop !  There'  a  well  in 

the  garden, 

'Tis  there  ye  may  dhrink,  an'  not  pay  a  farden." 
(60) 


Good-bye,    Biddy    Brogan!    now    I'll    tramp    it 

through  the  rain, 
Good-bye,   Biddy  Brogan!  for  I'll  never  come 

again. 
I  wouldn't  let  my  fiddle  sweet  be  soundin'  in  your 

place, 
You're  the  only  one  that  ever  brought  the  red 

into  my  face. 
You'll  be  wantin'  music  badly  for  your  weddin', 

yet  to  be, 
An'  faith!  ye  may  do  wantin'  for  all  ye'll  get 

from  me. 
If  the  man  you're  coaxin'  now  could  know  the 

crossness  of  your  mind. 
He'd  be  trampin'  through  the  rain  wid  me  an' 

lavin'  you  behind, 
Wid  your  "Not  another  dhrop!    There'  a  well 

in  the  garden, 
"Tis  there  ye  can  dhrink,  an3  not  pay  a  far  den." 


(61) 


DIVIDED. 

Tis  well  I  know  ye,  Slieve  Cross,  ye  windy  stony 

hill, 
An'  I'm  tired,  och!  I'm  tired  with  lookin'  on  ye 

still ; 

For  here  I  live  the  near  side,  an'  he  is  on  the  far, 
An'  all  your  heights  an'  hollows  are  between  us, 

so  they  are, 

Och  anee! 

But  if  'twere  only  Slieve  Cross  to  climb  from 
foot  to  crown, 

I'd  soon  be  up  an'  over  that,  I'd  soon  be  runnin' 
down; 

Then  sure  the  great  ould  sea  itself  is  there  be- 
yond to  bar, 

An'  all  its  weary  wathers  are  between  us,  so  they 
are, 

Och  anee! 
(62) 


But  what  about  the  wather  when  I'd  have  ould 

Paddy's  boat? 
Is  it  me  that  would  be  f  ear'd  to  grip  the  oars  an' 

go  afloat? 
Oh,  I  could  find  him  by  the  light  o'  sun  or  moon 

or  star, 
But  there'  coulder  things  than  salt  waves  between 

us,  so  they  are, 

Och-anee ! 

For  well  I  know  he'll  never  have  the  heart  to 

come  to  me, 
An'  love  is  wild  as  any  wave  that  wanders  on  the 

sea; 

/ 

Tis  the  same  if  he  is  near  me,  'tis  the  same  if  he 

is  far, 
His  thoughts  are  hard  an'  ever  hard  between  us, 

so  they  are, 

Och  anee! 


(63) 


A  LATE  WOOING. 


Am  I  the  young  man  that  you  sent  for  to  see  ? 

An'  tell  me  what  is  it  you're  wantin*  with  me? — 
"  'Tis  you  that  I  sent  for,  'tis  you  that  I  need, 
An'  what  I  am  wantin'  you  know  it  indeed." 

Then  spare  me  the  tale  an'  I'll  save  you  the  blush, 
For  all  you  would  offer  I'd  care  not  a  rush. — 
"Sure  then  it  was  false  what  you  said  long  ago, 
An'  moved  me  to  love  you  to  bring  me  to  woe." 

I  said  that  I  loved  you  as  dear  as  my  life, 
You  mocked  when  I  wanted  to  make  you  my 

wife. — 

"Forget  it,  forget  it!    That's  over  an'  bye. 

An'  if  I  must  lose  you  I'm  soon  like  to  die" 

(64) 


Oh,  never  be  thinkin'  you'll  win  me  to  rue, 
If  you  live  or  you  die  or  whatever  you  do ! 
You  killed  the  young  love  that  you  cared  not  to 

save, — 
I'll  smile  when  the  young  grass  is  green  on  your 

grave. 


(65) 


NEVER  MARRIED. 


My  mother  had  three  daughters,  an'  the  ouldest 

one  was  me, 

The  other  two  was  married  in  their  youth; 
Tis  well  for  them  that  likes  it,  but  by  all  that  I 

could  see 
It  'ud  never  fit  meself,  an'  there's  the  truth. 

Oh,  never  think  I'm  wantin'  to  miscall  the  race  o' 

men, 

There'  not  a  taste  o'  harm  in  them,  the  cratures ! 
They're  meddlesome,  an'  quarrelsome,  an'  trouble- 
some, but  then 
The  Man  Above  He  put  it  in  their  natures. 

I'd  never  be  uncivil,  sure  an'  marriage  must  be 

right, 

Or  what  'ud  bring  the  childer  to  the  fore? 
(66) 


Wid  their  screechin'  an'  their  roarin'  an'  balorin' 

day  an'  night, — 
Me  sister  Ann  has  five,  an'  Jane  has  more. 

I  couldn't  work  wid  childer,  an'  the  men's  a  bigger 

kind, 

But  muddy  an'  mischeevous  like  the  small ; 
Ye've  got  to  larn  them  betther,  an'  ye've  got  to 

make  them  mind, 
An'  ye've  got  to  keep  them  aisy  afther  all. 

I'm  betther  doin'  wi'  dumb  things,  a  weeny  black- 
faced  lamb, 

Or  the  yaller  goosey-goslin's  on  the  knowe; 
The  neighbours  think  I'm  sensible  wi'  sick  ones, 

so  I  am, — 
Sure  'twas  me  that  saved  the  life  o'  Mullens'  cow. 

Aye,  ye'll  often  hear  them  say  a  woman  cannot 

bide  her  lone, 

An'  it's  fifty  years  alone  that  I  have  bided; 
They're  very  apt  to  say  no  woman  yet  could  guide 

her  own, — 

But  them  that  God  guides  is  well  guided ! 
(67) 


HER  SISTER. 


"Brigid  is  a  Caution,  sure!" — What's  that  ye  say? 

Is  it  my  sister  then,  Brigid  Macllray  ? 

Caution  or  no  Caution,  listen  what  I'm  tellin' 

ye  ... 
Childer,  hould  yer  noise  there,  faix!  there'  no 

quellin'  ye!  .  .  . 

Och,  well,  I've  said  it  now  this  many  a  long  day, 
'Tis  the  quare  pity  o'  Brigid  Macllray. 

An'  she  that  was  the  beauty,  an'  never  married 

yet! 
An'  fifty  years  gone  over  her,  but  do  ye  think 

she'll  fret? 
Sorra  one  o'  Brigid  then,  that's  not  the  sort  of 

her, 
Ne'er  a  hate  would  she  care  though  not  a  man  had 

thought  of  her. 

(68) 


Heaps  o'  men  she  might  'a  had.  .  .  .  Here,  get 

out  o'  that, 
Mick,  ye  rogue!  desthroyin'  o'  the  poor  ould  cat! 

Ah,  no  use  o'  talkin!     Sure  a  woman's  born  to 

wed, 
An'  not  go  wastin'  all  her  life  by  waitin'  till  she's 

dead. 
Haven't  we  the  men  to  mind,  that  couldn't  for  the 

lives  o'  them 
Keep  their  right  end  uppermost,  only  for  the 

wives  o'  them? — 

Stick  to  yer  pipe,  Tim,  an'  give  me  no  talk  now! 
There's  the  door  fore'nenst  ye,  man!  out  ye  can 

walk  now. 

B rigid,  poor  Brigid  will  never  have  a  child, 
An'  she  you'd  think  a  mother  born,  so  gentle  an' 

so  mild.  .  .  . 
Danny,  is  it  puttin'  little  Biddy's  eyes  out  ye're 

after, 
Swishin'  wid  yer  rod  there,  an'  splittin'  wid  yer 

laughter? 

(69) 


Come  along  the  whole  o'  yes,  in  out  o'  the  wet, 
Or  may  I  never  but  ye'll  soon  see  what  ye'll  get! 

She  to  have  no  man  at  all.  .  .  .  Musha,  look  at 

Tim ! 

Off  an'  up  the  road  he  is,  an'  wet  enough  to  swim, 
An'  his  tea  sittin'  waitin'  on  him,  there  he'll  sthreel 

about  now, — 
Amn't  I  the  heart-scalded  woman  out  an'  out 

now? 
Here  I've  lived  an'  wrought  -for  him  all  the  ways 

I  can, 
But  the  Goodness  grant  me  patience,  for  I'd  need 

it  wid  that  man! 

What  was  I  savin'  then?    Brigid  lives  her  lone, 
Ne'er  a  one  about  the  house,  quiet  as  a  stone.  .  .  . 
Lave  a-go  the  pig's  tail,  boys,  an'  quet  the  squealin' 

now, 
Mind!  I've  got  a  sally  switch  that  only  wants  the 

peelin'  now.  .  .  . 

Ah,  just  to  think  of  her,  'deed  an'  well-a-day! 
Tis  the  quare  pity  o'  Brigid  Macllray. 
(70) 


ONLY  ONE. 


There'  five-an'-fifty  islands  maybe,  take  the  world 

aroun', 
An'  the  sun  he  be  to  light  them  all  afore  his 

goin'  down; 
But  when  he  looks  on  Ireland  'tis  then  he  shines 

the  best, 
An'  he  wants  to  see  no  other,  an'  he  sinks  into 

the  West  — 

For  the  sun  would  sleep  beside  her  in  the 
West. 

There'  many  a  lough  in  Ireland,  an'  one  I  know  is 

small, 

An'  a  little  house  beside  it  where  the  childer 
run  an'  call ; 


An'  wather  there  an'  heather  there,  an'  sorra  thing 

to  see, 
But  a  quare  an'  lonesome  place  it  is  that  holds 

the  girl  for  me, — 

She's  walkin'  by  the  lough-side,  an'  thinkin' 
long  for  me. 

If  I'd  step  up  the  loanin',  the  childer  they  would 

fly, 

They're  very  strange  in  them  parts  where  no 

one's  passin'  by; 
They'd  scatter  out  like  pettericks,  an'  hide  among 

the  heather, 
Their  sister  standin'  by  the  door,  an'  in  we'd 

go  together, — 

To  spake  the  word  would  aise  our  hearts,  the 
two  of  us  together. 

Then  why  go  heavy-hearted,  man,  an'  why  live 

here  your  lone  ? 

The  sun  he  loves  a  green  isle,  but  keeps  the  sky 
his  own; 

(72) 


He's  down  in  love  this  evenin',  he's  far  away  the 

morn, — 
A  man  will  lave  his  fancy  an'  the  place  where 

he  was  born, 

Aye,  a  wheen  things  behind  him  in  the  place 
where  he  was  born. 

But  for  all  that  the  best  does  be  still-an'-ever  one, 
Oh,  ne'er  another  Ireland  can  smile  beneath  the 

sun! 
For  all  the  loughs  in  Ireland,  for  all  the  glens 

there  be, 
The  one  lough,  the  one  glen,  the  one  girl  for 

me; — 

She's  walkin'  by  the  wather-side,  an'  thinkin' 
long  for  me. 


(73) 


A  BUD  IN  THE  FROST. 


Blow  on  the  embers,  an'  sigh  at  the  sparkles! 

My  mother  she  bid  me  be  wise  in  time. — 

Ashes  are  white  an'  the  red  fire  darkles : 

I  lost  the  words,  but  I  know  the  rhyme. 

It  may  be  true, 

An'  it  may  be  true, 

'Tis  much  to  me,  'tis  little  to  you! 

Oh,  look  if  a  boat  comes  over  the  water, 

An'  call  on  my  mother  who  told  her  daughter 

That  "Love  is  all  crost, — like  a  bud  in  the  frost." 

Love  has  undone  me,  an'  why  would  you  wonder ! 
My  mother  she  bid  me  be  wise  in  time. — 
The  waters  have  met,  an'  my  head  has  gone  under, 
But  far,  far  away  there  are  bells  that  chime 
(74) 


How  love  is  no  liar, 

Oh,  love  is  no  liar, 

"That's  only  a  bird  singin'  there  on  the  briar. 

You'd  better  be  lookin'  no  more  at  the  water, 

But  give  me  your  hand  an'   come  home,   my 

daughter, 
For  love  is  all  crost, — like  a  bud  in  the  frost." 


(75) 


THE  BLACKBIRD. 
(Words  to  an  old  Irish  tune.) 


There'  a  sweet  bird  singing  in  the  narrow  glen, 

The  blackbird  clear  with  a  golden  bill, 
He'll  call  me  af  ther  him,  an'  then 

He'll  flit  an'  lave  me  still. 
A  bird  I  had  was  one'st  my  own, 

Oh  dear,  my  colleen  dhu  to  me! 
My  nest  is  cold,  my  bird  has  flown, — 

An'  the  blackbird  sings  to  me. 

Oh,  never  will  I  tell  her  name, 

I'll  only  sing  that  her  heart  was  true; 

My  blackbird !  ne'er  a  thing's  the  same 
Since  I  was  losin'  you. 
(76) 


"Tis  lonesome  in  the  narrow  glen, 
An'  rain-drops  fallin'  from  the  tree' 

But  whiles  I  think  I  hear  her  when 
The  blackbird  sings  to  me. 

I'll  make  a  cradle  of  my  breast, 

Her  image  all  its  child  shall  be ; 
My  throbbin'  heart  shall  rock  to  rest 

The  care  that's  wastin'  me. 
A  Night  of  sleep  shall  end  my  pain, 

A  sunny  Morn  shall  set  me  free; 
An'  when  I  wake  I'll  hear  again 

My  blackbird  sing  to  me. 


(77) 


NEVER  LET  ON! 


When  I  was  just  a  youngster  an'  the  whole  of  us 

was  young, 

An'  childer  will  be  still  tormentin'  other, 
I  larned  a  thrick  to  watch  it  out  an'  still  to  hould 

me  tongue, 

An'  sure  enough  it  saved  a  heap  o'  bother. 
I  mind  the  time  that  Micky  had  his  sister  by  the 

hair, 
The  day  she  took  an'  broke  his  rod,  an'  Pat  was 

skelpin'  Mick, 
An'  Jane  had  hould  o'  Patsy  by  the  legs,  an'  Tim 

was  there, 
Says  I,  "I  think  I  see  me  Da," — that  saved  us  all 

the  stick. 

(78) 


Tis  the  only  way  o'  doin',  just  till  not  be  lettin* 

on! 

Were  ye  ever  at  a  fair  in  Cushendall  ? 
'Twas  there  I  nearly  lost  me  life,  an'  sure  I'd  only 

gone 

For  to  buy  a  likely  heifer  in  the  fall. 
Well,  I  bought  her,  then  I  sould  her,  an'  I  done 

a  thriflin'  deal 

Wi'  poor  ould  John  MacGonnell  o'  Rafoam; 
But  the  bruiser  Big  MacDonnell  knocked  the  head 

off  John  MacGonnell, 
So  at  the  latter  end  of  all  I  dhruv  the  heifer  home. 

I  was  lookin'  after  Nancy,  but  of  course  I'd  not 

let  on, 

An'  she  was  lettin'  on  she  didn't  care ; 
The  women  think  theirselves  as  cute,  an'  faith, 

they're  never  done 

Wi'  their  simple  sort  o'  schamin'  in  the  air. 
Well,  that's  a  tale  I'll  tell  to  none,  but  now  we're 

man  an'  wife, 

An'  she  quarely  likes  to  manage  an'  to  rule; 
(79) 


I'm  not  the  man  to  cross  her,  so  we  lead  a  quiet 

life, 
For  he  isn't  all  a  wise  man  that  wouldn't  play  the 

fool. 

Ah,  where's  the  use  o'  talkin'?    Ye  should  never 

draw  the  sod, 

Ye  should  never  stop  a  beggar  in  his  dhrink, 
Ye  should  see  an'  lift  your  own  load  an'  put  your 

trust  in  God: 

Tis  He  will  make  the  ship  to  sail  or  sink. 
But  och!  the  world  is  full  o'  fools  that  won't  be 

said  or  led, 

Now  may  I  never  live  to  rear  a  son 
If  I  would  not  insense  him  ere  he'd  be  to  earn  his 

bread, 
Till  "keep  a  quiet  sough,  me  boy,  an'  never  you 

let  on!" 


(80) 


A  ROSE  IN  DECEMBER. 


Well  can  I  mind  your  mother,  the  pity  it  is  she's 

gone, 
An'  her  sort  is  lost  out  of  Ireland,  women  like  her 

there's  none ! 
Blue  were  the  eyes  an'  kindly,  soft  an'  slow  was 

the  tongue, 
I  mind  her  words  the  betther  for  that,  an'  the 

quare  ould  songs  she  sung. 
She  had  many  a  poor  one's  blessin',  an'  blessin' 

she'd  give  golor, — 
Aye,  a  rose  in  December  was  growin'  by  her  door. 

But  you  were  all  the  daughter  she  had,  an'  faith, 

'twas  just  as  well! 
For  if  it  wasn't  for  manners  now,  straight  to  your 

face  I'd  tell 

(81) 


That  two  like  you  is  too  many,  an'  one  is  more 

than  enough, 
But  rightly  I  know  for  an  ould  man's  talk  you'll 

care  not  a  pinch  o'  snuff. 
For  looks  you  were  never  the  peel  of  her,  for 

larnin', — I  may  be  a  fool, 
But  I  wouldn't  give  much  for  the  larnin'  that's 

got  at  the  National  School. 

Young  people  should  be   conducted,  but  that's 

where  they're  all  asthray, 
There  were  none  o'  this  loiterin'  home  from  fairs 

in  Father  M'Carthy's  day; 
'Twas  he  would  ha'  had  their  lives  for  less,  so  he 

would  then,  who  but  he ! 
Your  mother  he  called  "the  flower  o'  Layde," 

an'  none  minds  that  but  me. 
An'  she  had  the  voice  of  a  song-thrush,  but  you 

have  the  laugh  of  a  jay, — 
Och,  she  was  a  rose  in  December,  but  you  are  a 

frost  in  May! 

(82) 


THE  OULD  TUNES. 


A  boy  we  had  belongin'  us,  an'  och,  but  he  was 

gay, 
An'  we'd  sooner  hear  him  singin'  than  we'd  hear 

the  birds  in  May, 
For  a  bullfinch  was  a  fool  to  him,  an'  all  ye  had 

to  do, 
Only  name  tue  song  ye  wanted  an'  he'd  sing  it 

for  ye  through, 
Wid  his  "Up  now  There !"  an'  his  "Look  about 

an'  thry  for  it,"— 
Faith,  he  had  the  quarest  songs  of  any  ye  could 

find, — 
"Poppies  in  the  Corn"  too,  an'  "Molly,  never 

Cry  for  it!" 
"A  Pretty  Girl  I  Courted,"  an'  "There's  Trouble 

in  the  Wind." 

(83) 


Music  is  deludherin',  ye'll  hear  the  people  say, 
Ah,  the  more  they  be  deludhered  then,  the  betther 

is  their  case ; 
I  would  sooner  miss  my  dhrink  than  never  hear  a 

riddle  play, 
An*  since  Hughie  up  an'  left  us  this  has  been 

another  place. 
Arrah,  come  back,  lad !  an'  we'll  love  you  when 

you  sing  for  us, 
Sure  we're  gettin'  oulder  an'  ye'll  maybe  come 

too  late. 
Sing  "Girl  Dear!"  an'  "The  Bees  among  the 

Ling"  for  us; 

I  could  shake  a  foot  to  hear  "The  Pigeon  on 
the  Gate." 

Oh,  Hughie  had  the  music,  but  there  come  on  him 

a  change, 
He  should  ha'  stayed  the  boy  he  was  an'  never 

grown  a  man; 
I  seen  the  shadow  on  his  face  before  his  time  to 

range, 

(84) 


An'  I  knew  he  sung  for  sorrow  as  a  winter  robin 

can. 
But  that's  not  the  way!  oh,  I'd  feel  my  heart 

grow  light  again, 
Hughie,   if    I'd   hear  you  at   "The   Pleasant 

Summer  Rain"; 
Ould  sweet  tunes,  sure  my  wrong  'ud  all  come 

right  again, 
Listenin'  for  an  hour  I'd  forget  the  feel  o'  pain. 


(85) 


TIDY  ANNIE. 


I  am  not  carin'  much  to  hear  what  the  young  men 

dancin'  say, 
An'  I  think  there  is  little  sense  in  them,  but  let 

them  go  their  way. 
For  I  have  many  another  thing,  an'  it  is  not 

marriage  I  mind ! 
Nor  yet  to  be  meetin'  below  the  road,  nor  yet  to 

be  lookin'  behind ; 
For  the  like  o'  that  is  foolishness,  an'  it  happens 

every  day. 

Then  I  think  it  is  very  well  for  me  to  be  livin'  in 

ould  Parkure, 
An'  the  way  that  I  am  it  fits  me  best,  for  a 

mother's  love  is  sure. 
(86) 


The  half  o'  the  wives  are  sharp-tongued,  the  half 

are  desthroyed  with  work, 
Ah,  the  height  o'  botheration  it  is  to  be  married 

on  a  Turk, — 
But  what  about  that?    If  he's  ten  Turks,  when 

it's  done  you  can  get  no  cure. 

'Tis  "Tidy  Annie"  they  give  me,  they  know  that 

I  can't  be  bet 
For  a  steady  girl,  an'  a  dacent  shawl,  an'  walkin' 

clean  in  the  wet. 
They  don't  see  many  that  do  like  me,  with  the 

house  to  keep  an'  all, 
An'  ducks  to  feed  an'  a  goat  to  milk,  an'  to  mind 

the  mother's  call, — 
But  isn't  it  now  the  quarest  thing — that  nobody's 

asked  me  yet! 


(87) 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  LETTER. 


I  hope  this  finds  all  well  at  home,  as  it  leaves  me 

at  present, 
An'  sure  I  am,  my  mother  dear,  that  you've  been 

thinkin'  long! 
But  don't  you  fret,  I'm  livin'  still,  an'  so  is  Andy 

Besant ; 
We  didn't  mind  the  ship  so  much,  but  she  was 

awful  throng. 

I  wisht  ye'd  see  the  place  we're  in, — the  name  is 

wrote  above, — 
Ye'd  say  'twas  just  unearthly,  wi'  the  blazin'  o' 

the  sun; 
The  drink  we  get  is  barefut  tea,  an'  not  for  gold 

or  love 
Could  ye  rise  an'  post  a  letter  here  as  ye  would  in 

Cushendun. 

(88) 


My  uncle  says  he  minds  you  well,  an'  why  would 

you  not  come? 
Be  sure  he'd  send  a  ticket,  an'  he'd  build  a  house 

some  place ; — 
But  the  blacks  'ud  have  you  scared  by  nights, 

an'  women's  best  at  home; — 
He's  a  kindly  sort  of  a  decent  man,  wi'  a  great 

big  sod  of  a  face. 

Ye've  likely  seen  Rosanna?  .  .  .  did  she  ask  or 

did  she  care  ? 
But  ye  needn't  say  I  named  her,  for  I  wouldn't 

go  that  far. 
Tis  only  Andy  wants  to  know,  an'  "Faith,"  says 

he,  "  'tis  quare 
An'  she  so  comely  as  she  is,  an'  she  so  long  wi' 

her  da!" 

Who  feeds  my  old  dog  Dusty  now,  an'  what  place 

does  he  lie? 
Ye'll  mind  not  fill  the  cart  too  full,  to  spoil  that 

pony's  shape. 

(89) 


I  doubt  Tom  Boyd's  forgot  me,  an'  the  rest  will 

by-an'-by, — 
He  said  he'd  write  so  constant,  an'  he  never  sent 

a  scrape. 

So  now  no  more,  my  mother  dear,  for  I've  no 

more  to  tell. 
I  see  you  at  your  spinnin'-wheel  beside  the  red 

turf  fire, 
An'  my  little  brother  Alick  there, — I  still  liked  him 

so  well! 
When  I  win  back  to  yous  again  I'll  get  my  heart's 

desire. 


(90) 


ALTANEIGH 


There  a  place  I  used  to  know, 

Where  the  bendin'  birches  grow 

By  the  bright  wather  still-an'-ever  fallin', 

An'  the  fern  is  smellin'  sweet 

Up  the  brae  about  your  feet, 

An'  a  voice  within  the  wather-voice  is  callin', 

If  you  waited  all  the  day 

Till  the  light  was  gone  away, 

An'  the  dark  an'  dewy  clouds  were  slowly  shif  tin', 

Oh,  a  little,  little  moon 

There  would  glimmer  on  you  soon, 

An'  all  among  the  stars  go  downward  driftin'. 

Will  I  ever  rise  an'  go 
To  the  glen  I  used  to  know, 
To  the  sweet  fern  an'  golden  wather  droppin'  ? 
(91) 


Up  the  brae  an'  by  the  burn 
See  them  stand  at  every  turn, 
Green  birch  crowns  the  one  another  toppin'  ? — 

Now  grant  I  may  not  see, 

No,  never  would  I  be 

Where  the  ferns  dip,  the  dark  pools  bubble : 

When  we've  loved  too  long  to  praise, — 

God  be  with  the  old  dear  days ! 

But  the  peace  of  that  glen  my  heart  would  trouble. 


(92) 


Songs  from  North-West  Canada 


ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 


Back  on  the  great  pale  prairie  that  stretches  out 

to  the  sky, 
Bare  to  the  winds  and  sunlight,  glistening,  grassy 

and  dry; 
You're  back  from  the  sweet  old  country,  the  island 

green  and  far, 
You  and  Alberta  had  said  Good-bye  "for  ever," 

but  here  you  are. 

No  tree  to  cast  a  coolness  on  all  the  land  bare- 
browed, 

Only  a  drifting  shadow  moves  from  a  drifting, 
wide-winged  cloud; 

Open  and  undeceiving  is  the  bright,  unfriendly 
space, 

You're  miles  from  a  spring  of  water,  and  miles 
from  another  face. 

(95) 


The  prairie's  not  for  shelter,  but  it's  plain  to 

understand, 
The  winds  are  ever  circling,  and  the  sunshine 

warms  the  land; 
This  air  is  strong  as  ocean,  this  noon-light  falls  in 

showers 
On  crowds  of  the  shimmering  grasses,  on  millions 

of  yellow  flowers. 

You've  little  cause  for  gladness,  but  your  heart  is 

up  and  glad, 
No  more  it  counts  old  sorrows,  nor  murmurs 

"once  I  had ": 

The  best  you  had  was  never  lost,  for  the  best  was 

never  known, 
Now  if  you  will,  a  day  shall  rise  that  lights  you  to 

your  own. 

The  old  cayuse  you're  riding,  whose  lordly  name  is 

Buck, 
Can  lope  as  far  as  the  next  horse  and  take  you  to 

your  luck ; 

(96) 


It  may  be  a  Mexican  saddle  is  the  highest  seat 

you'll  fill, 
But  it's  all  in  being  ready,  for  the  way  is  through 

the  will. 

Oh,  lift  your  head  and  see  again  the  Rockies 

where  they  rise, 
More  shining  than  the  morning  cloud,  more  stable 

than  the  skies; 
And  look  again  to  Southward  for  the  waters  that 

you  know, 
Between  his  flats  and  cut-banks  the  ice-fed  River 

Bow. 


(97) 


A  MAY  SONG. 


The  hills  were  dry  and  withered,  the  skies  were 

dark  with  snow 

When  I  let  you  go,  dear  love,  when  I  let  you  go. 
The  storms  came  down  and  swept  us,  breath  of 

the  bitter  North, 
We  rode  through  a  blind  white  fury  as  the  driven 

snows  came  forth, 
And  we  held  our  peace  for  the  most  part,  for  the 

land  lay  under  wrath. 
This  when  I  let  you  go,  dear  love,  after  I  let 

you  go. 

When  skies  grew  soft  in  April,  and  cloudy  as  for 

rain, 

I  called  to  you,  "Come  again,  dear  love!"  I 
called  to  you,  "Come  again !" 
(98) 


The  winter  has  gone  for  all  but  me,  and  a  spring 

wind  blows  from  the  west ; 
The  Easter  buds  are  opening  pale,  but  they  come 

for  a  sign  of  the  rest; 
The  birds  from  the  South  are  back  with  us,  but 

mine  is  an  empty  nest. 
So  I  called  to  you,  "Come  again,  dear  love!"  I 

called  to  you,  "Come  again !" 

The  ache  of  winter  has  gone  from  me,  I  wake 

with  the  heart  of  May ; 
We  that  were  two  are  one,  dear  love;  while  it 

is  called  to-day. 
Ride  with  me  where  we  used  to  ride,  and  look  on 

the  mountains  snow>  and  still, 
On  the  gold-flowered  willows  catching  the  light, 

on  the  little  blue  lake  at  the  foot  of  the  hill ; 
But  look  at  me  longest,  first  and  last ;  love  but 

me, — and  the  rest  as  you  will. 
We  that  were  two  are  one,  dear  love !    Look  in 

my  eyes  to-day. 

(99) 


WILLOW  CREEK. 


The  tent  is  pitched  for  sleeping  in  where  cotton- 
woods  are  green, 

And  Willow  Creek  is  running,  rippling,  singing  all 
the  way; 

The  misty  hills  are  dim  and  far,  the  last  the  sun 
has  seen, 

And  birds  and  leaves  and  silver  fish  are  sleeping 
after  play. 

The  day  is  slowly  dying  in  a  twilight  grey, 

And  evening  birds  sing  sweet  for  thanks  that  this 
one  day  has  been. 

The  stars  are  out  in  clusters,  but  the  moon  was 

never  seen, 
And  Willow  Creek  is  running,  rippling,  singing 

all  the  night; 

(100) 


With  a  breath  of  balm-of-Gilead  comes  the  breeze 

at  morning  keen, 

The  cloudy  east  is  broken  by  a  single  rift  of  light. 
The  night  is  slowly  dying  in  a  day-dawn  grey, 
And  morning  birds  sing  sweet  for  thanks  that  this 

one  night  has  been. 


SPRING  ON  THE  RANCHE. 


PART  I. 

THE  LAST  OF  WINTER. 

Oh,  not  for  us  the  primrose  faint,  the  south  wind's 

hush-a-low, 
Through  shining  aisles  of  the  beech-trees  that 

knew  us  years  ago ! 
Here  there's  a  long,  long  silence,  and  the  dumbly 

falling  snow. 

The  prairie  rolls  away,  away,  the  hills  are  covered 

deep, 
The  water-springs  in  the  coulees  are  sleeping  a 

frozen  sleep, 
The  sun-dogs  glimmer  for  a  storm ;  how  long  can 

winter  keep  ? 

(102) 


Among  the  hungry  cattle  it's  weary  work  to  ride 
And  see  the  weak-knee'd  mothers  go  stumbling 

side  by  side, 
Nuzzling  under  the  crusted  snow  for  where  new 

grass  may  hide. 

There's  not  a  blade  of  green  yet,  the  last  year's 

growth  is  rank, 
Sodden  and  brown  beneath  the  snow  on  hill  and 

bottom  and  bank; 
Every  horse  is  a  brute  this  month,  and  every  man 

is  a  crank. 

Only  the  evening  hours  are  good,  when  two  can 

sit  apart 
Within  the  light  of  the  fire  they  love,  curing  the 

winter's  smart; 
The  hand  is  warm  in  another  hand,  the  heart  is 

safe  with  a  heart. 


(103) 


SPRING  ON  THE  RANCHE 


PART  II. 

THE  FIRST  OF  SPRING. 

There  was  a  sound  of  whistling  wings  over  the 
house  last  night, 

And  the  wild  duck  dropped  in  the  creek  below, 
resting  upon  their  flight; 

Now  the  mallard  with  his  emerald  neck  is  swim- 
ming round  in  the  light. 

A  warm  wind  from  the  mountains  came  pouring 

like  a  tide, 
The   strong   chinook   has   broken   the   heart  of 

winter's  icy  pride, 
And  the  snow  has  all  gone  up  like  smoke  from  a 

prairie  sunny  and  wide. 
(104) 


Here  are  grey  buds  of  the  "crocus,"  but  shut  and 
silvery  dim, 

Along  the  creek  there  are  mouse-ears  on  the  wil- 
lows red  and  slim ; 

A  blue  tit  feeds  there  upside  down  in  the  manner 
approved  by  him. 

Hill  snows  melt  and  rush  in  streams  bubbling  and 

dark  as  wine ; 
Cattle  are  drifting  out  of  the  hills — well  do  we 

know  that  sign! 
And  the  soft  clouds  rolling  across  the  blue  have  a 

beauty  half  divine. 

New  grass  and  sweet  will  soon  be  here,  and  the 

patient  herds  grow  strong; 
We  will  forget  the  cruel  frost  and  all  the  winter's 

wrong ; 
None  can  be  glad  as  we  are  glad  unless  they  have 

waited  as  long. 


(105) 


A  HUSH  SONG. 


Sleep,  little  child,  sleep  softly  here, 
Angels  of  God  are  watching  near; 
Thou  shalt  be  safe — lay  down  thy  head ! — 
With  their  white  wings  above  thee  spread. 

Sleep,  little  child,  nor  fear  the  night, 
After  the  dark  comes  morning  light. 
Angels  return  their  Home  to  see, 
God  looketh  down  and  loveth  thee. 


(106) 


Translations  from  Italian  Poets 


LAMENTO. 


Gia  mai  non  mi  conf  orto 
Ne  mi  vo'  rallegrare: 
Le  navi  sono  al  porto, 
E  vogliono  collare. 
Vassene  la  piu  gente 
In  terra  d'  oltra  mare: 
Ed  io,  lassa  dolente, 
Como  deg'  io  fare? 

La  croce  salva  la  gente, 
E  me  face  disviare: 
La  croce  mi  fa  dolente, 
Non  mi  val  Dio  pregare. 
Oi  croce  pellegrina, 
Perche  m'  hai  si  distrutta  ? 
Oi  me,  lassa  tapina, 
Ch'  i'  ardo  e  'ncendo  tutta ! 

— RINALDO  D'AQUINO. 
(109) 


THE  CRUSADE. 

Sec.  xiii. 


Never  can  I  forget  my  woe, 
And  comfort  naught  avails : 
The  ships  are  in  the  port  below, 
Waiting  to  hoist  their  sails. 
The  men  are  all  for  sailing 
To  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
And  I  alone  am  wailing, 
What  will  become  of  me? 

The  Cross  that  saves  all  living, 
Has  set  my  steps  astray: 
The  Cross  such  grief  is  giving, 
To  God  I  cannot  pray. 
Oh,  Cross  of  pilgrims  faring, 
What  of  my  lonely  strife! 
The  grief  my  heart  is  bearing 
Will  waste  away  my  life. 

(1 10) 


ITALIA  MIA. 


Non  e  questo  il  terren  ch'  i'  toccai  pria? 
Non  e  questo  '1  mio  nido, 
Ove  nudrito  f ui  si  dolcemente  ? 
Non  e  questa  la  patria  in  ch'  io  mi  fido, 
Madre  benigna  e  pia, 
Che  copre  1'  uno  e  1'  altro  mio  parente? 
Per  Dio,  questo  la  mente 
Talor  vi  mova ;  e  con  pieta  guardate 
Le  lagrime  del  popol  doloroso, 
Che  sol  da  voi  riposo 
Dopo  Dio  spera ;  e  pur  che  voi  mostriate 
Segno  alcun  di  pietate, 
Virtu  contra  furore 

Prendera  1'  arme,  e  fia  '1  combatter  corto : 
Che  1'  antico  valore 
Negl'  italici  cor  non  e  ancor  morto. 

— FRANCESCO  PETRARCA. 
(in) 


MY  ITALY. 


Is  not  this  land  the  same  where  first  I  stood? 
Is  it  not  here,  the  nest 

Where  I  was  nursed  so  sweetly  day  and  night? 
Is  not  this  fatherland  my  own  wherein  my  faith 

I  rest, 

Mother  benign  and  good, 
That  covers  now  both  parents  from  my  sight? 
Oh,  that  at  last  this  might 
For  God's  sake  move  your  minds  to  feel 
Compassion  for  a  people's  tears  and  woes. 
Who  but  for  God  can  hope  repose 
From  none  but  you ! — Let  their  appeal 
Call  forth  your  pity  now  to  heal, 
Else  men  to  stop  this  fury's  way 
Will  take  up  arms,  and  short  will  be  the  strife : 
The  valour  of  an  ancient  day 
Still  in  Italian  hearts  can  wake  to  life. 


MADRIGALE. 


Cantate  meco,  innamorati  augelli, 

Poi  che  vosco  a  cantare  Amor  me  invita ; 

E  vui,  bei  rivi  e  snelli, 

Per  la  piaggia  fiorita 

Tenete  a  le  mie  rime  el  tuon  suave. 
La  belta,  de  ch'  io  canto,  e  si  infinite, 

Che  '1  cor  ardir  non  have 

Pigliar  lo  incarno  solo ; 

Che  egli  e  debole  e  stance,  e  '1  peso  e  grave. 
Vaghi  augelletti,  vui  ne  gite  a  volo 

Perche  forsi  credete 

Che  il  mio  cor  senta  duolo, 

E  la  gioia  ch'  io  sento  non  sapeta. 
Vaghi  augelletti,  odete ; 

Che  quanto  gira  in  tondo 

II  mar,  e  quanto  spira  ciascun  vento, 

Non  e  piacer  nel  mondo 

Che  agguagliar  si  potesse  a  quel  ch'  io  sento. 

— BOIARDO. 
(H3) 


MADRIGAL. 


Sing  now  with  me,  ye  wooing  birds  in  bowers, 
Since  Love  has  bidden  me  to  join  your  singing, 
And  all  among  the  flowers 
That  on  your  banks  are  springing, 
Fair  streams,  lend  to  my  rhymes  your  own  soft 

tone. 

Of  beauty  infinite  my  songs  are  ringing, 
No  heart  that  lives  alone 
Could  lift  such  load  on  high ; 
For  the  tired  heart  is  fainting  and  the  weight 

like  stone. 

Fair  little  song-birds,  still  before  me  flying, 
Is  it  that  here  below 
Ye  deem  my  heart  is  sighing, 
And  the  joy  I  have  within  me  ye  can  never 
know? 

(114) 


Fair  little  song-birds,  think  ye  so? 
Hearken !  the  seas  that  bound  us 
In  all  their  circles  have  no  treasure, 
Nor  has  the  earth,  nor  have  the  winds  around  us 
One  joy  that's  equal  to  my  deep  heart's  pleasure. 


(US) 


SONETTO. 


Come  creder  debb'  io  che  tu  in  ciel  oda, 
Signer  benigno,  i  miei,  non  caldi  preghi, 
Se  gridando  la  lingua  che  mi  sleghi, 
Tu  vedi  quanto  il  cor  nel  laccio  goda? 

Tu  ch'  il  vero  cognosci,  me  ne  snoda, 
E  non  mirar  ch'  ogni  mio  senso  il  nieghi : 
Ma  prima  il  fa  che  di  me  carco  pieghi 
Caronte  il  legno  alia  dannata  proda. 

Iscusi  1'  error  mio,  Signore  eterno, 
L'  usanza  ria  che  par  che  si  mi  copra 
Gli  occhi,  che  '1  ben  dal  mal  poco  discerno. 

L'  aver  pieta  d'  un  cor  pentito,  anch'  opra 
£  di  mortal :  sol  trarlo  dall'  inferno 
Mal  grado  suo,  puoi  tu,  Signer,  di  sopra. 

— ARIOSTO. 
(lid) 


SONNET. 

Can  I  believe  in  heaven  they  reach  Thine  ear, 
O  Lord  benign,  my  prayers  that  are  so  cold, 
When  my  tongue  cries  on  Thee  to  loose  the  hold 
Which  yet  Thou  see'st  my  secret  heart  holds 
dear? 

Thou  Who  dost  know  the  truth,  release  me  here, 
And  heed  not  though  my  senses,  rebels  bold, 
Deny  Thee :  hasten !  When  my  corpse  is  cold, 
Let  me  not  in  that  barque  with  Charon  steer. 

Forgive  me  all,  eternal  Lord !  too  well 
Hath  evil  custom  blinded  my  clear  sight 
Till  good  from  ill  I  scarcely  now  can  tell. 

A  heart  that's  penitent  can  ask  with  right 

A  mortal's  pardon,  but  to  draw  hearts  from  hell 
Against  their  will  Thou  only  hast  the  might. 

(H7) 


CANZONE. 


Vaghe  Ninfe  del  Po,  Ninfe  sorelle, 
E  voi  dei  boschi  e  voi  d'  onda  marina 
E  voi  de'  fonti  e  de  1'  alpestri  cime, 
Tessiam  or  care  ghirlandette  e  belle 
A  questa  giovinetta  peregrina : 
Voi  di  fronde  e  di  fiori  ed  io  di  rime; 
E  mentre  io  sua  belta  lodo  ed  onoro 
Cingete  a  Laura  voi  le  trecce  d'  oro. 

Cingete  a  Laura  voi  le  trecce  d'  oro 
De  1'  arboscello  onde  s'  ha  preso  il  nome, 
O  pur  de'  fiori  a'  quali  il  pregio  ha  tolto ; 
E  le  vermiglie  rose  e'  e'l  verde  alloro 
Le  faccian  ombra  a  1'  odorate  chiome 
Ed  a  le  rose  del  fiorito  volto ; 
E  de  1'  auro  e  del  lauro  e  de'  be'  fiori 
Sparga  1'  aura  nell'  aria  i  dolci  odori. 

— TASSO. 
(118) 


SONG. 

Lovely  Nymphs,  ye  sister  Nymphs  of  the  river  Po, 

And  ye  from  out  the  green  wood  and  where  the 
sea-waves  beat, 

And  ye  who  live  by  fountains  and  on  hill-tops 
high, 

Let  us  weave  dear  garlands  of  the  fairest  flow- 
ers that  blow 

All   for   this   wandering  maiden,   young   and 
sweet. 

Ye   shall  weave   the   buds    and    leaves,    the 
rhymes  will  I ; 

And  while  I  sing  her  beauty  and  praise  it  to  the 
height, 

Crown  ye  the  locks  of  Laura's  hair  so  golden- 
bright. 

(H9) 


Crown  ye  the  locks  of  Laura's  hair  so  golden- 
bright 

With  leaves  from  off  the  slender  tree  whose 
name  she  still  doth  bear, 

Or  else  with  flowers  that  seem  less  rare  now 
she  is  in  this  place, 

And  let  the  crimson  roses  and  green-leaved 
laurel  light 

Make  shade  above  the  sweetness  of  her  flower- 
scented  hair, 

And  shade  her  cheek  rose-tinted  and  all  her 
flower-like  face, 

Until  the  fragrant  laurel  and  the  breath  of 
blossoms  spread 

Are  lifted  on  the  gentle  air  and  wafted  over' 
head. 


(120) 


LA  VITA  SOLITARIA. 


Talor  m'  assido  in  solitaria  parte 

Sovra  un  rialto,  al  margine  d'  un  lago 
Di  taciturne  piante  incoronato. 
Ivi,  quando  il  meriggio  in  ciel  si  volve, 
La  sua  tranquilla  imago  il  Sol  dipinge 
Ed  erba  e  f  oglia  non  si  crolla  al  vento, 
E  non  onda  incresparsi,  e  non  cicala 
Strider,  ne  batter  penna  augello  in  ramo, 
Ne  farfalla  ronzar,  ne  voce  o  moto 
Da  presso  ne  da  lunge  odi  ne  vedi. 
Tien  quelle  rive  altissima  quiete : 
Ond'  io  quasi  me  stesso  e  il  mondo  oblio 
Sedendo  immoto ;  e  gia  mi  par  che  sciolte 
Giaccian  le  membra  mie,  ne  spirto  o  senso 
Piu  le  commova,  e  lor  quiete  antica 
Co'  silenzi  del  loco  si  confonda. 

— LEOPARDI. 

(121) 


THE  SOLITARY  LIFE. 


Sometimes  I  choose  a  solitary  place 

Above  a  slope  that  borders  on  a  lake, 

Set  round  with  silent  trees  as  with  a  crown. 

Here,  when  the  noon  is  past,  the  westering  sun 

Paints  his  own  tranquil  image  in  the  lake, 

Nor  blade  nor  leaf  stirs  in  the  passing  breeze, 

And  never  ripple  breaks,  no  grasshopper 

Shrills,  no  bird-wing  stirs  on  bough, 

No  butterfly  wanders,  nor  any  voice  or  motion 

Is  either  heard  or  seen,  from  near  or  far. 

In  deepest  quiet  all  those  shores  are  held : 

Till  I  forget  the  world,  almost  forget  myself 

Sitting  unmoved,  until  at  last  it  seems 

That  freed  in  death  these  limbs  of  mine  are  lying 

That  neither  sense  nor  spirit  can  move  them  more, 

That  they  are  back  in  their  primeval  quiet, 

Mingling  with  all  the  silences  around. 
.••••• 

(122) 


L'INFINITO 


Sempre  caro  mi  fu  quest  'ermo  colle, 
E  questa  siepe,  che  da  tanta  parte 
Dell'  ultimo  orizzonte  il  guardo  esclude. 
Ma  sedendo  e  mirando,  interminati 
Spazi  di  la  da  quella,  e  sovrumani 
Silenzi,  e  profondissima  quiete 
To  nel  pensier  mi  fingo ;  ove  per  poco 
II  cor  non  si  spaura.    E  come  il  vento 
Odo  stormir  tra  queste  piante,  io  quello 
Infinite  silenzio  a  questa  voce 
Vo  comparando :  e  mi  sowien  1'  eterno, 
E  le  morte  stagioni,  e  la  presente 
E  viva,  e  il  suon  di  lei.    Cosi  tra  questa 
Immensita  s'  annega  il  pensier  mio : 
E  il  nauf  ragar  m'  e  dolce  in  questo  mare. 

— LEOPARDI. 
(123) 


THE  INFINITE. 


This  lonely  hill  was  ever  dear  to  me, 

With  this  one  hedgerow,  shutting  out  of  sight 

So  great  a  part  of  all  the  far  horizon. 

But  when  I  sit  and  gaze,  interminable 

Spaces  beyond  that  bound,  and  superhuman 

Silences,  and  quietude  profoundest 

I  fancy  in  my  thought,  till  by  degrees 

My  heart  forgets  its  awe.    And  as  the  wind 

Rises  and  storms  among  the  trees,  this  voice 

I  hear  contrasting  with  that  infinite  silence, 

And  it  reminds  me  of  eternity,  of  seasons  dead 

and  gone, 

And  of  this  present  living  time,  with  all  its  noise. 
Thus  lies  my  thought,  drown'd  in  immensity, 
And  shipwreck  in  that  sea  is  sweet  to  me. 

(124) 


LA   SPIGOLATRICE. 


Eran  trecento  e  non  voller  fuggire, 
Parean  tre  mila  e  vollero  morire; 
Ma  vollero  morir  col  f  erro  in  mano 
E  avanti  a  loro  correa  sangue  il  piano ; 
Fin  che  pugnar  vid'  io,  per  lor  pregai, 
Ma  un  tratto  venni  men,  ne-piu  guardai : 
Io  non  vedeva  piu  f  ra  mezzo  a  loro 
Quegli  occhi  azzurri  e  quei  capelli  d'  oro    .    . 
Eran  trecento,  eran  giovani  e  forti, 
E  sono  morti ! 

— LUIGI  MERCANTINI. 


(125) 


THE  GLEANER. 


They  were  three  hundred  and  they  would  not  fly, 
They  seemed  three  thousand  and  they  chose  to 

die; 
But  they  chose  to  die  each  with  his  sword  in 

his  hand, 
And  the  blood  ran  before  them,  drenching  the 

land; 
While  I  could  see  the  fight,  I  knelt  for  them  to 

pray, 
But  all  at  once  I  fainted,  and  saw  no  more 

that  day; 

'Twas  when  I  missed  suddenly  out  of  the  fight 
The  head  with  the  golden  hair  and  blue  eyes 

bright.     .     .     . 

They  were  three  hundred,  they  were  young 
and  strong, 

And  they  are  dead ! 
(126) 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


00r  2  4 
NOV  2  8 


'DEC  4 
5  1939 


Form  L-9-15TW-7,'31 


uc  sou 


UNIVERSITY  of  CALIFORNIA 

AT 

LOS  ANGELES 
LIBRARY 


